Xander Harris, International Man of Mystery
by Gabberflast
Summary: Post 'Chosen', Xander is the best there is at Slayer retrieval. But when he gets seriously hurt on the job, some of the Scoobies thinks he needs to step back...
1. Sticky Situations

Chapter 1 – Sticky Situations

He was hot, bored out of his mind, and he had to pee. More of his skin was covered with mosquito bites than not, his butt was numb from sitting still, and his eye socket was stinging like an unholy bitch where sweat had actually soaked through the thick patch. In short, he was miserable.

Despite all this Xander Harris did not move a muscle. He did not as much as twitch behind the thick screen of jungle flora hiding him. Maybe it was a bit extreme— the likelihood of being spotted from this cover by his target as they approached, even had he started doing a jig, was slim to nil— but he had seen the consequences giving away the element of surprise, and Xander was nothing if not cautious.

_Considering what you're planning, not exactly true. How the hell do I get myself into these situations, anyway?_

It was a question he found himself asking more and more often of late, especially during these last few days, waiting in the jungle for his chance alone and miserable. This whole plan, an ambush on a narrow back-country road, was reckless at best and suicidal at worst. It was also a plan that offered a young, innocent girl her only real chance of escaping a life of slavery and degradation. It was a plan that should have never been necessary in the first place.

But here he was, sitting by the side of a dirt road through a thick jungle, waiting in the middle of freaking nowhere to ambush a freaking _convoy_ by himself. How the hell did he get himself into these situations?

Okay, so maybe it wasn't exactly the dictionary definition of a convoy— technically there was only the one jeep, but considering he knew there would be at least two armed passengers besides the driver, two more armed _anythings_ than Xander had, he figured some latitude from the grammar police was called for.

He was counting on the only two advantages he had being enough: first was the element of surprise, and second was the notion that the muscle was more there to guard against the Slayer's escape than rescue. That bespoke a certain stupidity on the part of the enemy, since they considered two armed men enough to guard a Slayer. It wasn't much, but it was something.

_How the hell do I get myself into these situations?_ He was beginning to feel like a broken record. By his estimation he'd been waiting there, unmoving, for close to three hours. It was hard to see where the sun was through the lush canopy, but three hours felt about right. Element of surprise or not, pretty soon he'd have to get up to answer the call of nature. Setting up the trap well ahead of the targets had been necessary so they wouldn't suspect—

He heard it then, the distant sound of an approaching vehicle. He mentally reviewed everything in preparation for the big event. Just beyond his position he had blocked off the road with a downed tree, not immediately noticeable due to a sharp curve in the road. The dummy mines were planted, looking very sinister at first glance and decidedly fake at closer inspection. He gripped the machete in his right hand tightly; it wouldn't actually help any in this scenario, but it was a comforting presence in his hand. If it came down to actual fighting, Xander was screwed: they had guns, and those guns had bullets, bullets which would put him down and out even if they only struck where the vest protected him.

No, Xander was definitely aiming to avoid a fight. There was nothing like spending several years working side-by-side with the Slayer, and then Slayers plural, to make it clear that fighting wasn't his forte. Bluffing, however, was one thing he could do, and following that theme he gripped a large red and satisfyingly menacing button. He was really counting on the stupid these guys appeared to be.

Everything was prepared to go to plan, or as in his experience, ready to fall apart at the first instant it was put into action. _Remember rule number one: Dying bad. Don't do that._

Slowly, ever so slowly, Xander shifted into position.

"Showtime," he whispered softly.

The jeep rounded the corner and stopped as the driver spotted the blockage in the road. He could make out the sounds of an argument from inside the vehicle, probably deciding who would get to leave the air conditioned car and clear the obstacle from their path— deadfall wasn't uncommon on these rural roads, and none of them yet suspected anything out of the norm.

Finally the driver emerged with a hatchet and approached the felled tree. Xander held his breath and prayed that the goon would notice the 'mines' but not look too closely. Apparently somebody up there was listening, because a moment later his head jerked around wildly and he seemed to spot at least one of the other prop explosives. He began gesticulating wildly and shouting at the jeep. The other two must have understood at least some of his frantic yelling, probably the panicked "bomba!" because they quickly emerged, AK-47s pointing the way.

"Of course they have AK-47s," he couldn't help but whisper to himself bitterly.

Xander could not adequately express his hatred of those damn guns. It seemed that no matter where he went, no matter what part of the world he found himself in, every single bad guy and his kid sister had an AK-47. What really got to him, though, was that he had absolutely _no idea_ where they got the damn things from. Because he had tried himself. Repeatedly. Obtaining machine guns, rocket launchers, tanks, or _whatever_ from the black market was nowhere near as easy as the movies had lead him to believe. A fact he was still somewhat bitter about, considering how often he saw exactly those items in the hands of the bad guys.

But that was a rant for another time; right now he had a job to do. As the two gunmen nervously took note of the placement of the mines that boxed the jeep in, Xander decided it was time to enter, stage left. _God I hope they don't just shoot me._

"Congelar!" he shouted in his stilted Spanish.

Three sets of eyes, two gun barrels, and one hatchet swung around to point at where his voice issued from the dense undergrowth. He crawled carefully through the blind he'd built, bright red button and threatening thumb leading the way.

Five minutes later he was driving merrily away in the opposite direction of what were soon to be three disgruntled saps. All things considered the plan had gone more smoothly than he ever could have hoped. _God bless stupid enemies._

Not that everything was pretty and perfect. He'd only allowed himself the briefest glimpse of the girl, to ensure she was actually in the jeep— any more would have been a dangerous distraction at that point. Even that short look had been enough to wrench his gut. While he had seen worse, God help him, it never got easier. She was trussed profusely with thick chains, and obviously drugged besides. The only garment she wore resembled a potato sack more than actual clothing. She obviously hadn't been allowed to bathe or groom herself in days, and looked like she hadn't eaten in longer. Her entire face was one swollen bruise, and large welts covered most of the rest of her body as well. Her ankles and wrists were horribly chaffed where they were bound. He couldn't even begin to guess at the extent of the injuries invisible to the plain eye.

It took a momentous effort of will to not pick up the men's surrendered weapons and kill them all then and there. No matter how much he wanted to do it, though, Xander had long ago resolved it was not his place, his right, to punish the human evil he encountered. However much it was deserved.

Even worse for him, he dared not free her before she woke from her drug-induced state. She was likely to be emotional when she woke up, and he couldn't risk her hurting him or herself in those first confused moments. It was impossible to guess what her reaction would be when she awoke. So he drove. He would be damned before she would ever have to wake up to that kind of terror and uncertainty again.

So he drove.

***

If he were going to be honest with himself, Xander would have to admit that it was a bad idea to attempt a lone rescue. He hadn't really felt like there was much choice, but from a purely logical viewpoint he had to concede it was a poor judgment on his part— he had been incredibly lucky to not have been injured, captured, or outright killed attempting what he had.

Whatever. It worked.

However foolish or reckless Xander had been, Giles couldn't argue around the fact that he had gotten his Slayer and himself out in one piece.

"That is not the point," Giles kept insisting. "You aren't any good to anyone dead. You _have_ to be cold-hearted sometimes, Xander, for the sake of all those Slayers you will rescue in the future. Even if it means some can't be saved."

Giles was right, of course. Of course, it didn't matter either— he would not, _could not_, just let her be taken. He couldn't bear the weight on his soul. Selfish or not, that weight kept building and building with every Slayer he couldn't save, and eventually he knew it would crush him entirely. So it didn't bother Xander that much that it was suicide to attempt to ambush two armed men in the middle of nowhere all with bluster and bullshit.

Anyone who met Sofia would agree it was worth the risk. That smile he finally coaxed out of her on the third day, the innocent giggle that followed the next in spite of all she had been through— it just did not register for Xander that there was ever the option of not helping her. She would have nightmares for a long time, true, and she would always carry the scars of what happened with her; but seeing the light slowly return to those dead eyes as she let herself trust another human being again: that was worth dying a thousand times for, as far as Xander Harris was concerned.

In fairness to Giles, the Watchers Council really hadn't been able to help. It was the same reason it was taking so long to arrange Sofia's extraction from the country. (Yeah, it turns out the international authorities frown on foreigners exporting droves of young girls abroad. Go figure.) Right now the Council was dealing with yet another death cult making with the trouble and the death in Paris on _top_ of the regularly scheduled apocalypse for the season in, of all places, Bismarck, North Dakota. Probably the first time anything has ever happened there at all. Sometimes evil had odd tastes.

So when Xander had explained that the _only_ chance they had at getting to her was during the brief overland transit, Giles had to explain back that there simply was no backup to be had. All their resources, down to the last lowly librarian, were busy with the current situations. In fact, Xander's assistance would be useful—

That's when he had hung up, and his crazy plan had been born. Thinking back on the sheer audacity and recklessness of it, he sent up another silent 'thank you' for stupid enemies. Really, what did a drug cartel need with a captive Slayer anyway? Just sooo asking for trouble, there. He almost preferred dealing with demons: much more straightforward. Plus, the cartels could be as horrible as the worst

It was almost enough to make him miss Africa.

Almost. Sort of. Well, not really. Not that Africa was bad or anything. On the contrary, the scenery was lovely and most of the people a delight. Even so, give him a spring mattress and hot water any day. The current lovely locale was spare on such amenities as well, of course. And it was in those splendid conditions that he and Sofia were lying low until the Council made with the paperwork and passports and whatnots.

He spent his time coaxing Sofia out of her shell, exercising the infamous Xander charm and quipping like his life depended on it. Eventually his persistence and simple human compassion won out. Xander had plenty of practice.

He did his job too, explaining up the mystery of why Sofia was so different than the other little girls, avoiding mention of who was responsible for said differences. The truth would only hurt her more right now; if she were to learn that this new savior and friend were partly to blame for her being taken in the first place. Xander explained to her where he was taking her, and drilled into her the information she needed to know in case something were to happen to him.

Which, in retrospect, had been an excellent idea. A van suddenly screeched to a halt right beside him on the now deserted street he was walking down. It was one of those bad-guy vans, the big plain white ones the kidnappers in the movies always use. True to form, out from the side door jumped four armed and distinctly mean looking men, guns pointed at him. Oh, and joy of joys, two were the saps he'd left in the jungle. Looked like the dinner he was bringing back to their little hidey-hole would be cold. At least they hadn't shot him outright. That had to be for the good, right?

_How do I get myself into these situations?_ There was that thought again.

One of them began shouting at him quickly in Spanish, gun shoved in his face. Xander's grades had never been good in Spanish, and he hadn't spent enough time in the country to pick any more up, but he figured pretty well they were demanding to know where Sofia was. So he did the only thing he could: he grinned his big dumb grin and said, "Sorry, my mom told me not to talk to strangers. Well, sort of. Ok, she didn't really—" He was still talking, the grin plastered across his face, when the rifle butt connected with his forehead.


	2. The Sound of Thunder

Chapter 2 – The Sound of Thunder

He missed sleep the most.

Having gone without it for— what was it, a week now? A month? Longer? It was all one eternity when one day blurred into the next— Xander could say that he hadn't truly appreciated sleep until he no longer could have it. They would keep him awake for days, finally letting him sleep only to whisk him away to be tortured again. The only time his captors let him sleep was when he had passed out and couldn't be revived. Xander yearned for those times.

The beatings hurt terribly, the electro shock hurt worse, and the hot brands hurt the worst. He hurt a lot. He hadn't eaten anything solid for God only knows how long. His entire existence was one excruciating breath after another. There was no daring escape in the works, and no hope for rescue. If only he could sleep, briefly able to escape this grim reality he'd found himself in…

The clock was ticking down. Xander was going to break soon, and when he did they were going to kill him.

Maybe he'd broken already. In the dim hours of the night when the dirty little village outside was quiet and the only light was a halogen sliver streaming under the door of the dank shack he was kept in, visitors from his past would come to him. Slayers he'd failed would stare silently at him from the shadows. He begged their understanding, sobbing quiet pleas for forgiveness, but their empty stare never wavered. It was not the First, just the delusions of a tortured man.

Anya's visits were the worst. She would whisper gentle comforts to him from just beyond reach. Xander tried to plead her forgiveness as well, desperately wanted to beg on his knees for those words, but could not bring himself to. She whispered her forgiveness anyway, and he hated himself and his traitorous mind for conjuring impossible hopes.

Chained up in a dirty shack in a small village in the middle of the jungle, Xander Harris waited to die.

***

On the one of the first days he had a visitor, a real one. The man who strolled casually into the shack was dressed in an immaculately white suit completely out of place in the muddy little settlement. Flanking him was a mean looking bastardo with a long scar down his cheek and a noticeable bulge beneath his jacket flap. Villainous mastermind and his trusted lieutenant, Xander assumed.

After a long pause where Xander and the stranger appraised each other, the new arrival finally spoke.

"So I thought to myself I should come and see the man who cost me my Slayer."

Xander didn't really know what to say to this, so he just kept quiet and maintained a blank face. Inside, though, he was doing cartwheels of joy. _They didn't find Sofia!_

"I've heard of you, you know. The one-eyed gringo who travels around the world rescuing lost little girls. You're quite famous in certain circles."

"Sorry," Xander finally replied. "Can't say the same for you. Am I supposed to know who you are?"

The man grinned. "No. Just know I am the man who is responsible for your death." Gloating. Of course he came to gloat. Xander wondered if the man knew just how clichéd he was.

"Do you expect me to talk?" Xander said in his best Connery impersonation. All he got for his efforts was a puzzled look from the villain.

"Talk about what? You know nothing I want to know."

Xander just sighed in disappointment; there was no respect for the classics.

"I have to say, you are not what I expected."

"Thought I'd be taller?"

"I thought you would be more"— he paused here, searching for the right word— "remarkable. Not some dim-witted buffoon. This is the infamous savior of lost Slayers? I'm disappointed."

Xander shrugged. He didn't really care if this bastard had expected some Arnold Schwarzenegger man of action, and wasn't interested in responding to his jibes any longer. There must be some shared inadequacy issues common to all the bad guys for them to feel the need to gloat over the defeated hero. Somebody should show them the Evil Overlord list, he was sure that this exact situation was in, like, the top ten.

Perhaps sensing that Xander was finished with their verbal sparring, the man glanced at his watch. "It was a pleasure meeting you, but I'm afraid that's all the time I have. Schedules, you know." Without a further word, he turned and walked out of the shack, bodyguard close on his tail.

Xander rolled his eyes at the closed door.

Aside from the visit's brief distraction, his days and nights were a predictable routine of torture in the morning, more torture later in the day, some more torture after that, and then a long lonely night to bask in the pain of his newest assortment of injuries. He just waited and hoped they'd get to the death part of torturing him to death soon— Xander couldn't even bring himself to care anymore. The days passed very slowly as he waited to die.

***

What sounded like distant cracks of thunder roused Xander from his half-asleep daze— it was the first time he'd heard thunder here, but something about it seemed off. He couldn't quite place what it was, so he didn't worry about it.

The thunder was growing louder, and he thought he could here shouting as well. _Funny, usually there's lightning with thunder, _a distant part of his brain thought. Something strange was definitely going on. He tried to go back to sleep.

Suddenly the sounds of battle were right outside the shack. Not thunder, he realized; that was gunfire. Whatever was going on, Xander wanted well away from it, not that he had much choice. He huddled in a corner and kept his head down, praying that the fight would stay on the other side of the door.

The gods were not in a granting mood, it seemed, because the next moment a shadowy figure kicked the rickety wooden door in and swept into the room, his rifle scanning around for targets. This figure crouched down immediately inside the door while another rushed in after. The new arrival spotted Xander in the corner and moved in for a closer look, causing him to shirk back instinctively. After weeks of torture and captivity Xander was all raw edges and strained nerves, and this latest little development was taxing what little mental control he had remaining. _They've finally come to kill me, _he thought. Instead of relief that at last the deed would be done, the thought sent a fresh spike of abject fear and regret through him.

"Relax, we're the cavalry," the soldier said. If Xander were more cognizant he could have heard the grin in the soldier's voice.

As it was he barely registered the words, his faculties currently overwhelmed by the sudden presence of two darkly dressed and heavily armed commandos bursting into his prison, their faces obscured by masks and night vision goggles, lending them an almost demonic visage.

His two liberators exchanged quick words and the one standing close— but not threateningly close— spoke into a radio. Xander was too far away to make out what he said. A long moment passed before a third figure strode purposefully into the room, kneeling next to Xander's huddled form. This one whipped off his goggles, bared his face, and spoke.

"Xander, it's me. We've come to rescue you."

Xander didn't reply.

"Do you recognize me Xander? Do you know who I am?"

He squinted up at the man now, recognizing….something.

"Riley?" he asked weakly. His name caused the man to smile. It was a relieved smile, but also full of sadness.

"Good Xander. That's right. We've come to get you out of here."

Xander knew he was hallucinating again, knew that no rescue was coming. He was surprised it wasn't Buffy or Willow his mind had conjured as his last-hour savior. The false vision was a comforting one, though, so he went with it. Riley noticed the imperceptible relaxing of his body and moved in to begin checking injuries.

"We're here to take you home, Xander," he repeated comfortingly. Riley turned to one of the other soldiers. "We're going to need a stretcher; he's not walking out of here."

The man gave a crisp nod, turned, and strode out the door. Riley turned back to Xander. "Just hold on for a little while, Xander. We're going to get you home."

Home. He was going home. It was a nice thought.


End file.
